


Suck my Kiss

by Ebyru



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Blow Jobs, Blue Balls, Bottom Napoleon, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Crack Treated Seriously, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Illya, and illya is a liar, because this is crack, diD I MENTION SEX, dirty dirty smut, honestly there is very little plot, only because napoleon is a douchebag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9222773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: The one where Napoleon tries to learn “the Kiss” that Illya showed him, and ends up creating something of his own."that mouth was made to suck my kiss!"





	

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd because....there's no reason.  
> this is crack, and thus cannot be taken as scientific fact (duh!) also, Napoleon is a shit who can't leave Illya alone when he needs to. 
> 
> Also! title and end scene inspired by lyrics of RHCP's "Suck My Kiss" because I was listening to their greatest hits when I began writing this, lol.

“Illya, _please_.” Napoleon knows using his first name always gets the desired effect. It has something to do with the intimacy of using a given name, as well as the moment he started using it: after Napoleon was saved from Rudy’s electric chair. Though Napoleon doesn’t like seeming vulnerable, he knows when to use it to his advantage, and on whom.

Illya’s large frame relaxes, his arms still crossed. He steps away from the hotel room wall he’s pressed against. “I cannot teach you how to succeed in one day. Told you, it takes years.”

“I know, I know. I just want to see if I can manage it. Please?” Napoleon shoves his hands in his pockets, going for non-confrontational, pleading, _desperate_. All things that seem to appeal to Illya in spite of his intention to prefer the fighting personalities. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll do it on my first try and we won’t make it to the rendezvous point we’re meant to be at in an hour?”

Illya laughs in an unpleasant manner. It is self-assured and condescending, and makes Napoleon want to succeed even more. “I think it will be fine,” he replies in his accented, rigid tone, still grinning. “And will still have time to visit Istanbul after.”

“I should hope. I hear the women here are riper than fruit,” teases Napoleon, knowing any reference to seduction and sexuality always gets Illya a bit flustered and hot underneath his turtleneck. Today, however, it’s missing because the hotel room’s air conditioning has been broken since late morning.

“Listen, Cowboy,” he starts bluntly. He places himself in front of the grey sofa the hotel has kindly provided for them. “It is not only about where you hit, but how. It has to be close to the ear, but not too close. Don’t hit ear. Below ear, above where Adam’s apple is, but don’t hit throat of course. Side of neck, ok? And use only palm. Too hard could kill the receiver.”

Napoleon raises a brow. “I recall you hitting that Italian guard pretty hard.” He opens his suit buttons, slipping out of the tailor-made jacket. “But all right. I will be as gentle as you insist.”

“Not too gentle! Then it won’t work either,” Illya interrupts. He stands, stiff as ever, his face towards their hotel room door with Napoleon at his side. “Take your time,” he adds.

Napoleon bites back a mean retort, saying instead, “If you say so.” He places one hand at the side of Illya’s neck on the left, as he saw him do.

“Good start,” says Illya, unnecessarily. He closes his eyes, waiting.

Napoleon sighs, glad Illya’s eyes aren’t open to see the elaborate eyeroll that pulls from him. With his right hand, he swishes it through the air, repeating the instructions that Illya just gave him under his breath. “Not too hard, not too gentle. Close to the ear, but not on the ear. Towards the throat but not on the throat. Right, I’m going to try now.”

“Whenever you are ready,” says Illya, his arms crossed. “I am ready.”

Napoleon lines his hand up, then draws back in an arc and lands his smack directly where he thinks Illya had on the guard. Illya’s eyes open slowly, he turns to Napoleon with a smirk, shrugging a shoulder.

“I guess even you can’t learn it in one day,” he says proudly.

Napoleon would leave it at that, if it weren’t for the bead of sweat suddenly trailing down Illya’s throat. Another starts at his hairline, slithering down his temple and cheekbone. “Huh,” he says.

“W-what—” Illya collapses on the couch, touching his forehead. “What did you do? Did you drug me?”

Napoleon scoffs. “How? Peril, I assure you we’ve gone past bugging each other’s rooms and trying to kill one another. Don’t you think?”

“Then what—Oh, _no_.” Crossing his legs quickly, Illya tilts his head down, away from Napoleon’s searching eyes; but Napoleon can still see the slow flush crawling up his neck close to where Napoleon struck him.

“What’s happening? Should I call someone?”

Illya shakes his head fervently. “No one. Don’t tell anyone!” he growls, his accent stronger than usual.

“Then what should I do? Did I hit a nerve or something?” Napoleon grins, all-too-pleased with the outcome of his first dive into KGB methods. Maybe he could train under Illya, and use his techniques in future missions.

“Or something,” squeaks Illya, his throat bobbing with each swallow. He’s sweating more profusely now. “I…can’t go to meetup. You go, I stay here. Tell Gaby for me.” He shifts his body further into the couch and away from Napoleon’s view.

Napoleon sits next to him, touching his shoulder. His own heart races with the thought that he may have caused the man harm beyond what was planned. “Did I hurt you? Please, I didn’t mean to do anything. I thought you were just kidding. If I hurt you—”

“I am not hurt,” he whispers. “Just…” Illya removes his cap, running his fingers through his blond hair now sticking to his forehead from the sweat.

“Just? Did I bruise your ego then?” chuckles Napoleon. Illya doesn’t respond. “Well?”

Illya groans as he tries to shift further away from Napoleon on the couch. “Go away.”

“Peril, don’t be like this. I’m your partner now – albeit temporarily, but still. I thought after all we’d been through—”

“It is hard to explain,” says Illya with a resigned sigh. He can’t even make eye contact.

Napoleon moves his hand to Illya’s back, pressing gently, trying for supportive rather than his usual infuriating prodding (not that it’s difficult to anger Illya). “Then try. I’m all ears.”

“The body has many points which can cause pain or other effects. This is... _other_.”

Napoleon blinks, tilting his head towards Illya, trying to get a look at his face. Maybe if he could see his expression he’d know what he did wrong. “And this is not pain?”

“No,” he says tightly.

“Sadness?” asks Napoleon, he rubs slow circles against Illya’s wide back.

Illya snorts. “No.”

“Then what’s left?”

Illya finally faces Napoleon, and his face tells him a number of things. His skin is flushed, glistening with sweat, his blue eyes lost in the darkness of his blown-wide pupils. If Napoleon didn’t know any better, he’d think he was drugged himself. But as it is—

“Oh, _that_ ,” says Napoleon. “That’s one of the possibilities?”

Illya nods, looking between Napoleon’s eyes, waiting for him to laugh or run away in disgust. He stays where he is, even moving in closer, continuing to rub Illya’s back soothingly. “You’re not leaving,” states Illya flatly.

“I’m not, no.” He smiles. “I caused this, right?”

“Yes,” replies Illya, his brows knitting together.

“So it’s only right I help you remedy it.” Napoleon leans in, sliding his fingers underneath Illya’s powder blue shirt. He picked it out for him last week, and it makes his eyes sparkle like the surface of water on a sunny day.

“Cowboy,” he warns, trying to lean away from the gentle caress on his back. “I am not gay.”

“Neither am I,” says Napoleon cheerfully. “But I am very much a people-person. The more options, the better.” He smiles, pressing in slowly. His fingers trail downward towards Illya’s dark slacks doing their damndest to keep Illya’s substantial erection in check. It’s more or less a losing battle.

Illya crosses his legs more tightly to block Napoleon’s access. “No,” he says.

“Why not? You said yourself you won’t be able to go to the rendezvous point otherwise. So let me help you.”

Illya stands when Napoleon’s hand slides down the back of his pants, nearly into his briefs. He covers the front of his pants with his large hands, skin redder by the second. “I can do myself. You go first.”

And he locks himself in the bathroom. Napoleon sighs, lying fully against the couch. Illya makes no sounds that he can hear, and Napoleon gets bored of waiting. He goes to the rendezvous point on his own.

\---

Not just one, but three burly men hit on Napoleon as he makes his way to and from the meetup. Even Gaby finds ways of bypassing their harassment with her attire and her steely gaze. Napoleon’s natural demeanor – charming and friendly – gets him violating looks and even whispered words in his direction from said burly men. At one point, a couple of men try to corner him in an alley near a fruit stall, and he has no choice but to reveal his identity to them to keep them from trying to offer him money for his ‘services.’ Not that Napoleon has any to offer beyond being sarcastic and stealing precious items from unsuspecting wealthy people.

By the time Napoleon is back at his and Illya’s shared room – Gaby’s one floor down – he is, frankly, in the mood to commit an annoying act of his own. If that involves his sulking, giant roommate then so be it.

“Peril?” he calls as he enters slowly. He carefully closes the door behind him, quiet as can be. Lucky for him, Illya is wrapped up in a chess match against himself. Napoleon often teases that he loses to himself only because he refuses to face his demons.

Napoleon unbuttons his jacket, throwing it over the back of their shared couch. He wipes sweat from his brow, and stretches his arms above his head. All the while, Illya continues to stare down his chess game as though it were the secret to eternal youth.

No better moment will come, Napoleon tells himself. Is he wrong to want to try again? Perhaps. Does that stop him from rushing in, startling Illya’s eyes wide as can be, and slapping the same spot he had earlier? Not in the slightest.

Illya shouts not with pain but something akin to betrayal. “Solo, you are traitor. I thought you were partner!” He begins to stand, but collapses back underneath the square table where his chess set waits for him.

For five straight minutes, Illya swears in Russian, cursing both Napoleon and every American he has ever come into contact with. As he does this, not only does his body fill with more blood and energy than he needs, but his pants tighten in the nether regions. Napoleon can’t help but stare, his mouth watering.

Illya refuses to look in his direction, crossing his legs. The friction must be borderline painful because his teeth grit and he throws a sharp glare Napoleon’s way. “Why do you not leave me alone after first time? I told you what happened.”

“I was trying to do The Kiss this time, I swear.”

“You are bad liar, Solo,” he shouts at full volume, uncaring for who hears his monstrous Russian roar. “I should do to you so you understand what feels like.”

“Maybe you should,” Napoleon breathes out, arousal shooting through him at the thought of them both trapped in this room with erections. “Why don’t you?”

“Because you want it, you pervert. I told you: I am not gay. Stop trying to make me.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Now that’s just rude. Why would I be trying to turn you?”

Illya laughs, leaning over his chess set with an intent gaze. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I simply like you, Illya. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Yes, very. You are spoiled, childish, conniving, lying, thieving man with too much intelligence no good use for it,” illya spits in a single breath, speaking through his teeth. Somehow, the arousal isn’t as distracting for him this time around.

“You think I’m smart?” teases Napoleon, grinning when Illya looks up at him with narrowed blue eyes.

“See? You can never be serious. That’s why I don’t believe you,” he snaps.

Napoleon is caught off guard by that, and sits on the couch to watch Illya soberly. “About what?”

“Anything!” he spits, slamming a chess piece across his board. “I don’t even know if you found father’s watch or if you stole it in first place.”

Napoleon stands without a single word, and briskly walks into their bedroom, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t speak a single word for the rest of the evening.

\---

In the morning, Napoleon waits until Illya is pouring himself coffee, and smacks him at the spot on his neck again. (He lovingly dubs it The X-rated Kiss in his head.) “Good morning,” he says afterwards, sipping at his cup of orange juice.

Later, when they need to follow a man named Bezu through alleys and lanes, Napoleon sends Illya on his own because he doesn’t want a repeat of the previous day’s harassment. No one would dare hit on a man Illya’s size, except Napoleon that is. As they return to the hotel with the needed information, right before they’re meant to call Waverly and give him what they’ve uncovered, Napoleon performs his X-rated Kiss again.

Illya is furious, but professional regardless. He transmits what he discovered in as few words as possible and escapes to the bathroom after to relieve himself. Napoleon whistles when Gaby marches into their room and asks, “What are you doing to him? I thought we were past pulling each other’s pigtails? You’re two grown men. Act like it!” And she storms out just as quickly as she appeared.

It’s after supper, nothing but time and silence filling their hotel room, when Napoleon successfully strikes Illya with one last X-rated Kiss. This time, Illya howls, picking Napoleon up as if he weighs less than a child, and throws him on his bed. Their bed. The beds have been pushed together, and Napoleon has no idea when exactly that happened. He lies, frozen, mouth agape as Illya stands above him, hands on his hips and a dark look in his eyes.

“I am tired,” he says after a stretch of silence. “I am tired and you are child. I wanted to wait until after mission was complete, but of course you are spoiled baby.”

Napoleon swallows, blinking slow enough to process his favourite Russian’s words. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said you win. Let’s do whatever your plan was. I will strip now.” True to his words, Illya rips his hat and shirt over his head, his pants pushed down just as abruptly. He stands in his bland but form-fitting briefs, his arousal clearer through the grey briefs than it’s ever been before.

Napoleon chews his bottom lip. “I didn’t have a plan,” he admits, sitting up. “I was just enjoying tormenting you with my newfound ability.”

Illya grabs napoleon’s ankle and drags him towards the end of the bed. He hovers over him. “Were you also enjoying every time I had to spend many minutes trying not to touch myself? Not once did I masturbate, Napoleon. Not one time. I was waiting like good Russian boy. Not like rotten American child.”

“Sorry?” Napoleon croaks out, his throat dry from Illya’s frame boxing him against the beds. “I assumed you had just taken care of it—”

“Like you? _No_.” Illya leans in very close, his blue eyes depthless. “I am patient. I am professional.” His breath comes out more rough, his erection having slid against Napoleon’s thigh. “But you can never wait until after mission to have sex, can you?”

Napoleon’s breath is ragged, his own length hardening beneath Illya. His anger palpable, thick and suffocating, almost animal. “Illya, I didn’t mean to start this—”

Illya shakes his head, pressing his fingers against Napoleon’s mouth to stop him from speaking. “Don’t lie. You wanted this. Now finish it, _Napoleon_.”

In an instant, Illya’s briefs are pulled down his thighs, and his cock is set free. The sizeable erection bounces inches from Napoleon’s face as Illya scoots up the bed, pressing his palms into the bedding. The position is both a challenge and a demand; Napoleon refuses to lose, especially to a stuffy man like Illya.

“All right then.”

Napoleon grips his cock in one hand, dragging him closer with the other arm. He wraps his bicep around Illya’s thigh to keep him in place, and he swallows as much of his length as he can. He closes his eyes, but they still water with the sheer girth of Illya.

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Illya, above him, grunting out a string of Russian words, and reflexively thrusting into the inviting wet mouth below him. He rolls his hips in circles when Napoleon bobs his head, moaning around his shaft.

Napoleon can’t see Illya because his eyes are closed, but he feels his large hand tangle into his hair to angle his mouth better, and that’s when he starts fucking into his throat in earnest with a soft, “Mmm. Yes, Solo. _Good_.”

To keep from choking, Napoleon sucks in air when he can, pulling off with a pop to savour the taste with a moan of his own. And when he can’t, he breathes loudly through his nose, tears welling at the corner of his eyes, all the while feeling his cock strain against his black pants.

Precome fills Napoleon’s mouth with each thrust, and with each jarring hip movement his throat aches more and more, but his cock slicks the inside of his own pants at the prospect of having this monster erection deep in his ass sometime in the future. “Illya, you taste so good,” he has to say. Illya growls in response.

Napoleon squeezes Illya’s thigh with his free arm, and massages his soft, hairless ass cheek with each delicious suck. His other hand jerks at the stiff flesh of Illya’s shaft, as Illya bites down into his own shoulder to keep from screaming in pleasure.  Napoleon’s hips move weakly upward, seeking friction, but finds nothing. Instead, he focuses his tongue into the slit of Illya’s cock, collecting as much precome as he can manage, savouring the first time he’s tasting him. Illya flexes his ass in Napoleon’s grip, and leans impossibly closer while panting, filling Napoleon’s throat to the brim with his length.

After a few frantic thrusts, the head of Illya’s cock drags slowly from the back of Napoleon’s throat all the way to the tip of his tongue. And when Napoleon grips the base of his shaft, Illya can’t help but dig his nails into Napoleon’s scalp and come like a freight train, white splashing hot and fast against his tongue and lips. Illya cries out, “Napoleon, fuck!” his voice hoarse and dry as though he were the one getting facefucked a moment ago. He pants as the last of his come spurts against Napoleon’s chin and down his throat. Napoleon lies boneless, allowing Illya to use him as he wishes, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing.

With his softening length, Illya pushes the come up towards Napoleon’s mouth and doesn’t stop until it is all cleaned up. Illya then lets himself fall next to Napoleon, stretched out like a starfish, spent and pleased. Napoleon licks his lips, still chasing the taste of Illya in his mouth. He closes his eyes, breathing hard but reaching blindly for Illya’s hand. He squeezes his knuckles. “That was amazing,” he huffs out.

“Yes, was good. More?” Illya says.

Napoleon wants to shake his head, but he doesn’t have the energy to move anything beyond his hands. Illya is already reaching for his cock, tenting his pants, before he can reply, and it comes out as a keening moan instead of a ‘no.’

**Author's Note:**

> comments always appreciated. :)


End file.
